


Mercy

by Hearty Durian (SaskiaTheWanderer)



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Hurt No Comfort, M/M, Minor Character Death, Mutilation, Whump
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-27
Updated: 2019-09-22
Packaged: 2020-07-21 04:10:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19995640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SaskiaTheWanderer/pseuds/Hearty%20Durian
Summary: After Armageddon, the world goes back to the way it has been. For a certain angel and demon, things are even better. There's dinner at the Ritz, and kisses, and even vague mentions of a holiday. One day, Michael pays a visit to Aziraphale. Crowley makes a terrible mistake. Things go very drastically south, and the world gets just a little bit darker.





	1. Chapter 1

Aziraphale was curled up with a cup of cocoa, reading in the fading light of the evening sun. 

He had decided to give Goethe's Faust another try, and was almost enjoying it when the bell jingled over the door. Aziraphale heaved an aggrieved sigh. This is what he got, opening during “regular business hours” for once. He wasn’t even sure if he had opened the shop at all. He’d had a late night with Crowley last night, drinking and talking and _kissing _, a new and rather delightful addition to their relationship since Armageddon had been prevented.__

Hearing footsteps, he shook himself out of rosy memories of the previous evening. He closed his book, and rose from his chair reluctantly, putting on his surliest voice in greeting. 

“Welcome to A.Z. Fell & Co,” he droned, “Purveyors of rare--” his words died in his throat as he rounded the corner.

__

Michael. She was flanked by two other large, rather brawny angels, all three shining with divine energy. He’d never met the other angels before, personally, but he knew their type. Justice. Punishment. 

__

A seed of dread began to sprout in Aziraphale’s stomach. 

“Hello, Aziraphale,” said Michael, her smile a veneer of politeness which dropped into stony seriousness almost as soon as it appeared.

__

“Ah, h-hello, Michael, to what do I owe the… visit…” he trailed off in the face of Michael’s severe expression.

__

“Is there somewhere private we talk could talk? We have important matters to discuss concerning your actions during the End of Days.” 

__

A shiver of cold ran down his spine. Reflexively, his wings materialized, as though he was preparing to flee.

__

“I-I thought you’d done all that. You know. Dragging me to heaven, demonic fire, and all that. Um.” 

__

Michael’s mouth drew into such a thin line her lips almost disappeared. 

__

“I think it would be best if we sat down to discuss this,” she repeated, her voice all ice. 

__

“Yes, alright. Um.” Aziraphale felt his hands shaking, a sweat breaking out on his brow. “In, my back room, that should be, uh, perfectly serviceable.” Clasping his hands across his belly to still them, he turned and led the three other angels to the back room. He could feel Michael’s eyes boring into his skull. His feathers ruffled, lifting as they did when he was especially agitated. 

__

It was only a few turns to the back room, but Aziraphale walked as slowly as he thought was reasonable, trying to think past the roaring in his ears. He felt a bizarre urge to offer them tea, if only to prolong the inevitable. He dismissed this, as it would probably only annoy Michael, and she was already in a towering mood. All too soon, they reached the tiny, cluttered back room. Aziraphale sat down at the small wooden table, facing the door. Michael settled across from him, in what he realized he thought of as Crowley’s chair. It felt wrong, seeing Michael occupying it. The other two angels stood to either side of the narrow doorway, effectively blocking any exit or entry. Aziraphale’s nervousness ratcheted up from ‘awkward’ to ‘cornered’.

__

“Down to business.” said Michael, pulling a smart leather folio from nowhere and consulting her notes. “As you said, you were brought to heaven two months and six days ago, to be cleansed from existence with the fires of hell. Somehow,” her jaw tightened, “you escaped the procedure unscathed.”

__

Aziraphale opened his mouth, unformed explanations spinning wildly in his head. Michael held up a hand, stopping Aziraphale’s words in his throat. 

__

“That is of no consequence at the moment, although we will continue to look into your methods. Due to your, well, lack of punishment for your egregious deviations from angelic duty, and our apparent inability to kill you, Heaven has decided upon some… non-lethal consequences. You will be demoted, deprived of the rank, privilege, powers and abilities endowed by your station as Principality. You will remain a member of the Host, but as one of our most insignificant heavenly beings. Understood?” 

__

Aziraphale blinked. It was all terribly vague, this demotion business. 

__

“I, w-well no, I’m afraid I don’t understand. What e-exactly would I… lose?” 

__

Michael smiled, a smile that was both condescending and predatory, like she was looking at a dog she planned to kick for its disobedience. She pushed back her chair and stood.  
“I think that will become apparent very shortly, Aziraphale.” She gestured to the two guardians, “Kushiel, Hutriel, if you please.” 

__

Before Aziraphale could do more than push back his chair, they stepped around the table and lifted him bodily between them, bringing him to the center of the room. Aziraphale flailed with arms, legs, and wings, but their grip was like iron, and his blows seemed not to affect them in the slightest.

“What are you doing to me!” Aziraphale shouted as they set him back on his feet, “let go! At least, a little explanation, I don’t understand!” Their only response was to shift position, one angel wrapping his arms around Aziraphale under his wings, crushing Aziraphale against his chest. 

__

“They’re only doing as they’re told, Aziraphale, and as I said. All will soon become clear.” said Michael, her voice all bronze with power. “Did you think there wouldn’t be consequences for your actions? Tut tut, you really should know better than that.” 

__

She walked around to where Aziraphale could see her, his head forced to the side against the torso of the angel who held him. Holding his gaze, she reached into the air, her smile like the vengeful hand of God, suddenly illuminated by the glow of a celestial blade. It was a knife of some sort, long and thin, single edged, with a slight curve as it tapered to a narrow, dangerous point. Michael turned the blade this way and that, as though admiring it, then stepped behind Aziraphale, out of his sight. Aziraphale was whimpering now, terror sowing weakness through his body. He was trapped, helpless, about to be hurt in ways he wasn’t sure he wanted to know. 

__

“Hold his wings,” Michael said, and the angel who was not restraining Aziraphale crushed one of Aziraphale’s wings to his body, and stretched the other one out, pulling on the joint until it ached. Aziraphale’s terror sharpened as understanding mixed with fear, and he began to struggle again, wrestling with all of his strength, trying to move his wings, his arms, kicking and kicking at the angel who held him, wailing.

__

“No, No! Please, you can’t, not my wings, please, please, I’ll do anything, let me go, you _can’t!”_

“Do hold still, it will be messier if you squirm,” Michael shouted over his desperate pleas. He barely even heard her beyond the blood rushing in his ears, his whole mind shrieking that he had to get away-- but, he couldn’t. His arms were trapped, legs useless, wings… Michael’s hand joined the guardian’s on his outstretched wing. The knife dug into his flesh, cutting deep, to the bone, and into the joint between wing and back. Aziraphale’s scream was so powerfully anguished that it shattered the glass in all his cases of rare books.

__

###### 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _The knife dug into his flesh, cutting deep, to the bone, and into the joint between wing and back. Aziraphale’s scream was so powerfully anguished that it shattered the glass in all his cases of rare books. ___

Crowley decided to drop into the bookshop at around seven o’clock that night, having heard nothing back from his earlier call. Aziraphale had mentioned he might be reading Faust, and perhaps this was finally the correct time and place for it to fully absorb him. 

He’d gone by the angel’s favorite bakery on his way, chatted with the baker, Emily, and bought a cake which he thought was a little romantic, with chocolate ganache and strawberries. He hoped he wasn’t being too forward. No, that was silly. They were involved, now. 

He turned the knob of the bookshop and pushed open the door with his shoulder, his other hand supporting the cake. None of the front lights were on, but that wasn’t all that unusual. Aziraphale must have retreated into the private spaces of the bookshop. He took off his sunglasses and folded them away, his dark vision never worked quite as well with them on.

“Aziraphale,” he called out into the shop, continuing forward. Crowley had long since formed an annoyed fondness for Aziraphale’s tendency to withdraw from everything in the world besides his chosen focus, but it did sometimes make it hard to finalize plans. The angel probably wasn’t even expecting Crowley today, since they’d spent the previous evening together. 

Something glinted down the row, catching the dim glow of the streetlamp outside. Glass. It looked like the shards had once been the front doors of a cabinet, which was now open to the air. 

Crowley quickened his pace, putting the cake down on a shelf without really looking. His feet crunched over the shards, and he saw evidence of more shattered cabinets throughout the shop.

“Aziraphale!” he called again, louder, a note of desperation in his voice. The door to the back room was closed. He had to check, before he went upstairs, just in case… he didn’t know what. He flung the door open and rushed inside.

The world tilted. Aziraphale lay on the floor in a pool of dark, drying blood. His clothes were soaked with it, and in his arms was something large, soft and white and bloody. His mind roared, and he stumbled towards Aziraphale, crashing to his knees beside him, reaching for him, shaking his shoulder, touching his face. As he moved, his hand brushed feathers. 

_No. No, they weren’t, it couldn’t be! ___

The thing he had known on sight slammed full force into his consciousness. Aziraphale was holding his wings. Holding them in his arms, because they were no longer a part of him, they were loose, amputated. Tears filled Crowley’s eyes, he blinked them away, continued trying to rouse Aziraphale. 

Aziraphale groaned, a weak, shuddering noise. But something. Crowley slipped an arm under his angel’s head, cradling him in his arms. Aziraphale’s eyelids fluttered, then stilled. Crowley bent his head, pressed it against Aziraphale’s cheek.

“Angel?” Crowley breathed against his skin, barely able to speak. All he got in response was a whimper. A thousand questions piled in Crowley’s mind, but those were all secondary, because none of them would matter if he didn’t _do something right now._

Crowley eased Aziraphale over onto his stomach, maneuvering the wings out of his arms. Aziraphale let out a little sob, and at once Crowley was reassuring him, stroking his hair

“Shh, darling, it’ll be alright, I’ve got them right here, and I’ll, I’m going to try to…” Crowley couldn’t quite bring himself to say aloud what he was going to do, it was mad, it’d never work, but he had to try.

Snatching a pair of scissors from the air, he cut the clothing from Aziraphale’s back, peeling it away to reveal gaping, open wounds, flesh and bone exposed to the air. The cut had been made neatly at the joint. So precise. Crowley hoped that might make this easier. 

He lifted the wings, Aziraphale’s wings, and placed them, delicately, along his back, lining up the bones and tendons as best he could. Aziraphale moaned in pain at the jostling, the friction on the raw wounds.

“What’re you… Crowley, whashappenin?” Aziraphale slurred, barely conscious. Crowley stilled, stroked his hair, glad he was coming to, though it might make the process a little difficult. 

“Just a moment, angel, just a moment, it’ll all be over.” Crowley took a deep breath, drawing with it all the energy he could muster. He laid his hands on Aziraphale’s skin, between the wing joints, and poured his will into the body underneath him.

He closed his eyes, focusing on the skin under his hands, pleading to God, to Satan, to the air and himself and everything.

__

__

“Please, heal him. Make him whole.”

__

__

Energy coursed through Crowley, the very essence of his being leapt to meet Aziraphale. He cracked his eyes open, and saw muscle and tendons knitting together, snapping taut. Aziraphale shuddered beneath him, his hands curling into fists, a low moan escaping his throat. Crowley tried not to let his shock interrupt the flow, as fat, then skin, then delicate feathers, closed over the wounds.Crowley fell back, limp and hollow with exhaustion.

It had worked. It had _worked. ___

__

And then Aziraphale began to scream.  


The angel writhed on the floor, scrabbling at his back as his wings glowed red hot. The tips of his pinions caught fire, the flames traveling up the feathers, which did not burn and turn to ash, but were instead left black, charred to their core. Without thinking, Crowley batted at the flames with his hands, trying to extinguish them, and drew back, his hands blistering. Hellfire.

Crowley scrambled away, curling in on himself, watching through his fingers as Aziraphale burned. What had he done? He hadn’t meant to, but then he hadn’t meant to fall in the first place and… and he remembered this. Remembered the fire in his wings, his body, the very center of his being. A sob tore itself from Crowley’s throat, barely audible as Aziraphale continued to shriek in agony.

_What had he done!_

Crowley couldn’t tell if it was cowardice or sensibility that kept him away from his beloved, writhing in flames on the floor. He just knew that he couldn’t touch him, he couldn’t, he’d only make things worse for both of them. He’d already done enough damage. So he sat, and cried, and refused to let himself look away for a single moment.

Later, much later, when the fire had receded to soot and scorch marks on the floorboards, Crowley approached the prone form of his companion. Aziraphale was shaking, muscles twitching and chest heaving with ragged sobs. Hie eyes were clenched shut, his skin had a grey pallor. Crowley laid a hand gingerly against his cheek. Aziraphale flinched, wailing, but then leaned into the touch. Crowley stroked his cheek, running his thumb along the plump jaw, pressed a kiss to his forehead.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, his tears dripping onto Aziraphale’s face. “I’m so sorry, my dear.” Again and again, he said it. He didn’t think he’d ever be able to say it enough. Eventually, Aziraphale’s sobs calmed to weak hiccups, his body still trembling.

He turned his head, blinked effortfully up at Crowley. His eyes were dull, the color flat like a puddle reflecting an overcast sky. He’d clawed at his face, the skin bruised and scratched deep, welling with blood. Crowley pressed one of his hands to his mouth, holding back a howl. He didn’t deserve to cry, not now, with Aziraphale hurting so much more, hurting because of what he’d done…

“Hold me?” the question wobbled from Aziraphale’s mouth, the words edged in pain. Crowley pulled him close at once, looping an arm under soft shoulders and cradling his body gently. Aziraphale’s arms wrapped around Crowley’s thin torso as he buried his face in Crowley’s t-shirt. 

They clung to each other, shuddering with pain and despair. Crowley kissed Aziraphale’s soft curls, rubbed circles on his lower back. He tried to stroke his newly-blackened wings, preen the ruffled feathers, but Aziraphale flinched at the contact, a low whine slipping from his lips. From then on, he stayed away from the wings. 

Crowley rocked, and soothed, whispered endearments and apologies and sweet nothings, for hours. Aziraphale lay soft and fragile in his arms, tears still running down his face. His eyes were open, had been open this whole time. Crowley tried in vain to get him to rest, to sleep even, but Aziraphale just blinked, and continued staring at Crowley, at the ceiling, at nothing. 

Crowley kissed the tears from his face, and his heart broke into ever-smaller pieces with each moment that passed. When, at last, the morning sun spread its weak rays through the tiny window of the back room, Aziraphale stirred, and sat up slightly, his arms weak and quivering. His face was suffused with a million emotions, he was transfixed, just staring at the light. 

“I thought,” he murmured, voice thick with passion, “that the world had ended.”

###### 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _When, at last, the morning sun spread its weak rays through the tiny window of the back room, Aziraphale stirred, and sat up slightly, his arms weak and quivering. His face was suffused with a million emotions, he was transfixed, just staring at the light._
> 
> _“I thought,” he murmured, voice thick with passion, “that the world had ended.”_

Aziraphale didn’t say another word for almost two weeks.

He hadn’t exactly been silent, Crowley thought.

There had been the pained groans as Crowley helped him up the stairs from the bookshop to his flat, each time his sore body had jostled or his wings brushed the walls. Soft wails of misery that jolted Crowley awake from where he dozed beside Aziraphale, and he turned to see the angel staring glassy-eyed at the ceiling, tears dripping down his face. And there had been sobs, great, heart rending ones, Aziraphale’s head buried in Crowley’s chest, his arms clutching so tight Crowley’s ribs might have broken, had they been standard human ones.

Crowley tended to Aziraphale in every way he knew how. Aziraphale seemed to long for warmth and touch, and Crowley showered him with tight hugs and gentle kisses on the cheek, cups of tea and warm blankets. The tea went untouched, at first, but Crowley kept bringing it, reheating the mug with a thought, eventually pouring it out and trying a different type, as though the problem were the flavor and not the near-catatonia of the recipient.

The intimacy of their situation was almost unbearable for Crowley, feeling Aziraphale’s body curled against his, soft blond curls under his touch, his friend’s arms reaching for him in his sleep. How long had he ached to be like this with Aziraphale, close and tender, kissing and touching and just holding him, and now it was all _wrong_. He’d made it all wrong.

After eleven days, Aziraphale reached for the fresh mug of tea Crowley offered him, and took a tentative sip. A smile wobbled its way onto his lips, and he closed his eyes, inhaling the steam.

Crowley smiled back, hopeful.

“There you go, Angel.”

Aziraphale’s eyes flashed open and he burst into tears. Crowley managed to grab the mug just as Aziraphale’s fingers went slack around it, and set it hastily on the bedside table.

“Shit, darling, I’m so sorry,” Crowley crowded himself onto the bed beside Aziraphale, pulling him close and holding tight, “please, I didn’t, hraagh, it was habit, I…” he trailed off, there was nothing to say. Aziraphale clutched Crowley’s lapels, howling brokenly. Crowley’s heart broke, sending rivers of shame and sorrow through his blood, shaking his limbs in time with his friend’s shuddering sobs. 

Many, many back rubs and comforting shushes later, Aziraphale’s despair receded, like a storm blowing itself out on the shore, leaving debris and wreckage and a strange, damp calm in its wake. The former angel wormed his way out of Crowley’s embrace, and curled up facing the wall.

“I really am so sorry,” Crowley said, contrition in every syllable. The curl of Aziraphale’s body tightened. Crowley got up, went downstairs, and had a small, quiet breakdown in the back room.

_He’d ruined everything!_ he tore at his hair, breathing ragged. _They could have come back from this! Aziraphale would have healed! It would have taken a long time, but it wouldn’t be like this, it wouldn’t be forever! _Crowley collapsed to his knees, shaking with silent sobs, weighed down and haunted by what was, and what could have been.__

__When Crowley came back, exhausted but calmer, Aziraphale was lying still, staring blank-eyed at the ceiling. Crowley stepped cautiously into the room, padded over to the bedside table to pick up the mug. The tea was half gone._ _

__“D’you, erm, wanna finish this?”_ _

__Gently, like his head might break if he moved too vigorously, Aziraphale nodded. Crowley allowed himself a slip of a smile._ _

__“Crowley, what happened to me?”_ _

__Crowley muttered unintelligible syllables for a few moments, searching Aziraphale’s carefully blank expression for any sign of… well, anything. Didn’t Aziraphale know? He’d just had a breakdown after being called Angel, he must be aware... well. Better to start at the beginning._ _

__“What… do you remember?”_ _

__Aziraphale let out a shuddering breath. His lips tightened, the blankness in his eyes sliding into hazy pain._ _

__“I remember Michael... she came, with two others, and she…my… wings…”_ _

__Crowley settled onto the bed beside Aziraphale, trying to hold him, offer comfort, but Aziraphale did not relax, only lay woodenly and stared straight ahead as he spoke._ _

__“Well. You know, you came. I don’t know how long it had been. It was light out when they arrived. The sun was coming in the back room window… I blacked out, after… I woke up, it was dark. The sun sets early this late in the fall…”_ _

__“You’re drifting, darling.” Crowley ran a hand tentatively through Aziraphale’s curls, feeling minutely relieved when he leaned into the contact._ _

__“Right...yes. You came. And you held me, and… oh, it hurt, I could barely think… but I was glad you were there, glad I wasn’t alone any longer. Then you took my wings, you tried to fix them. the pain eased, just for a moment, and then,” a shudder coursed through Aziraphale’s body, twisting his face. “Then I was burning.”_ _

__Crowley pulled him closer, folding himself around Aziraphale. There was nothing to protect him from, not now, but he still wanted…_ _

__“Nobody’s come for me.” said Aziraphale after a moment. “I thought, well, I'm new. to Hell. And all. They didn’t send someone, did they? You didn't have to chase them off, while I was sleeping, or...”_ _

__Crowley shook his head._ _

__“I reckon Hell’s decided we’re just, erm, too much paperwork, or some such.”_ _

__“Quite.”_ _

__“I’m sorry, darling. Truly I am.”_ _

__“What’s done is done, Crowley. No point in wallowing any longer.”_ _

__With that, Aziraphale shrugged his way out of Crowley’s embrace, got up, and started to change out of his pyjamas._ _

__

__Once Aziraphale got out of bed, it was like a frenzy had taken him over. He began to pull all his books from the shelves, piling and sorting and reorganizing in a system that not even Crowley could discern the pattern of. Not that it mattered, really, because nobody at all entered the bookshop anymore. As the days passed, the windows became grimier, the unpleasant smell ripening to something sticky and vile. The front steps grew a permanent layer of slime, and the ‘OPEN’ sign vanished entirely._ _

__A few times, Crowley asked if he could help with the frantic reorganization of the bookshop, which seemed to occupy Aziraphale day and night, with no space for rest or his usual pursuits of leisure. Aziraphale always refused his help, though, quickly dismissing Crowley with a “no, no dear boy, you wouldn’t understand” or “you don’t even like books, you’ve said so a million times.”_ _

Crowley tried, sometimes, suggesting outings, but these also went unacknowledged or brushed aside. _No, thank you._ to dinner, _another time, dear._ to a gallery opening, even an _I’m really quite busy!_ at the prospect of the opera, which Crowley only ever usually attended for Aziraphale’s sake. Crowley left the bookshop more and more once Aziraphale was up and about, though his worry about his friend had increased. Sometimes he went to his flat for a day or two, just for the sake of some emptiness that wasn’t deliberate, that wasn’t a space that had once been filled. If he’d bought tickets or made a reservation in the hopes that Aziraphale might accompany him, he’d go alone, or dredge up an acquaintance to go with him. 

__The rest of the time, Crowley took to trailing aimlessly about the bookshop, lounging in chairs as human or snake, and trying in vain to get Aziraphale to eat something more substantial than a biscuit._ _

__Crowley was simply at a loss. Aziraphale had put up walls around himself, walls of chilly brick and taut pleasantries. He tolerated Crowley’s hovering, his gentle touches and entreaties, but rarely engaged, his once gentle blue eyes like shards of ice on a glacier._ _

__Then there were the moments when Aziraphale would seek Crowley out. He could never quite predict these moods, and they often followed periods of such stoniness that they’d catch Crowley by surprise. Aziraphale would soften, begin to touch and murmur and look at Crowley in almost the way he missed most. They’d end up curled together on a loveseat, or in bed, and Aziraphale would tuck his head against Crowley’s shoulder, or pull Crowley into his lap, and they’d hold each other._ _

If Aziraphale cried, Crowley would rock him, and kiss his hair, and whisper apologies and sweet things against his skin. If Aziraphale kissed him, and he did, rarely, Crowley’s whole being would thrill, and they’d spend blissful minutes or hours wrapped in each other, kissing and touching, and Crowley would begin to thing maybe, _maybe_. 

__Crowley cherished these times with an unforeseen fierceness, grasping at the scraps of what had once been a blossoming affection. It hurt almost as much as Aziraphale’s indifference, and it hurt more the next day or hour when Aziraphale would revert to his new, frosty demeanor, leaning away from a peck on the cheek or slipping out of an embrace. Crowley felt constantly wrong-footed, trying to keep his balance in the uncharted waters of his new oldest friendship._ _

__But of course Aziraphale had changed, cut off from the endless love of Heaven, cast into disgrace and sin. And of course he deserved to keep Crowley at arms length, if he wished, or at any greater distance. Because wasn’t all this Crowley’s fault? If he hadn’t meddled, hadn’t been so desperate to fix things, Aziraphale wouldn’t have fallen. He’d be hurt and broken, but he’d still be himself._ _

__Weeks turned to months, slowly and fast at once. Aziraphale’s frenzy settled into something else, something different again. He seemed to draw further into himself, and further away from the person Crowley had known all these thousands of years. Even as he felt guilty for feeling it, Crowley longed for his Angel back._ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, sorry its been forever and an age since I posted, but the story's not dead!


End file.
